


choices

by zombeesknees



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 15:51:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17266988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombeesknees/pseuds/zombeesknees
Summary: Peggy is doing her best to live in a world without Steve Rogers, to carry on the good fight in any way she can. The founding of S.H.I.E.L.D., set post-Captain America and pre-Agent Carter series, with an allusion to the one shot Agent Carter. | Written for Sus many moons ago on LJ.





	choices

When the war’s over—officially, anyway; according to the papers; she knows it’ll be months if not years before it really _feels_ over—Peggy buys a plane ticket for New York. Everything she owns is in the suitcase she checks at the airport: some clothes, some of her mother’s jewelry, a couple of her grandmother’s battered books. And in her purse is a photo in a simple bronze frame, of a weedy grunt squinting in the sun.

She keeps a tight hold of her purse when she steps into the city, because that photo is why she’s here. She’s come back to New York because this was Steve’s city. And she tells the cabbie to take her to Brooklyn because that was Steve’s backyard. 

That first day all she does is walk. She passes greasy spoon diners and pauses to glance down the alleys, wondering if this was where he got into one of his many scrapes with the neighborhood toughs. She stops in front of a movie theater and silently watches kids and teenagers and couples arm-in-arm trickling in for a matinee show; she remembers how fond Steve was of the movies, all of those silly propaganda shorts he starred in. She even walks past the crumbling apartment building that was his last address before enlistment. Someone else lives there now, another family, but she can almost see Steve and Barnes chasing one another up and down the rusting fire escape. Both bright and bruised and golden in their own ways; both gone, taken, lost far too soon.

She gives herself that one day to be maudlin, to weep and properly grieve. By the end of it, her toes and heels are raw inside her black pumps. Her whole body aches in a counterpoint with her heart and her head. She knows hers is hardly a unique loss—this whole city, the whole world, is simply going through the motions in quiet, dulled shock. Coffins are still being shipped home to wailing mothers and stone-faced wives.

But at least those women have coffins to bury. She only has a picture in her purse and a promised raincheck for a dance that still echoes in her ears. And while the country mourns the loss of its Captain, some erecting monuments while others paint his face on billboards, she walks the streets Steve Rogers once called home and tells herself sternly that it was his choice—his choice. And it wasn’t just the choice of a hero; it was the choice of someone who could never stand down in the face of bullies.

And now it was up to her to make those choices.

****

The apartment she takes in Brooklyn is small and sparsely furnished. Utilitarian, like the military barracks she’s become accustomed to. But that’s okay, because she’s never home. She finds that if she sits for too long she starts to daydream—of what could have been, of what should have been. And she simply doesn’t have the time for such painful fancies when there’s work to be done.

Of course, the work they give her hardly occupies her like she wishes it would. As the sole woman in the department, she’s been designated "the secretary”. They dump their files and messages on her desk. Expect her to have the coffee pot bubbling when they stream in every morning. It falls on her to man the phone, to collate the data, to type up the handwritten notes.

She hates it. Not just the work—she hates the constant sugary condescension, the misogynistic asides and casual admiring glances they cast over her curves, the stifled laughter when she opens her mouth to vent an opinion, the smug superiority of men who would have cracked a week into basic training. They don’t hide their opinions of her: that she’s nothing more than eye-candy to brighten up the office; that she only got this job because she was Captain America’s girl, out of pity; that it made sense to have women in the workforce while the men were away, but now that they’re coming home…

On especially bad days, she wants to smack them. Tell them she fought alongside good men who died to keep the world free. That she slogged through mud and blood and snow and never fell behind. That she knows how to use, clean, and repair eighteen different firearms. That she reported directly to Colonel Phillips and that she got her position through sheer perseverance and hard work—not because she slept her way to the top.

But she knows screaming won’t change a bloody thing. She has to ignore their jibes and become bulletproof. Prove them wrong with actions; prove that she’s leagues ahead of them by outdistancing every one of them before they even realize the race has started.

They are, after all, only another breed of bully. Happy to mock a target they see as much weaker and beneath them. And she knows how to shut down a bully; she’s seen it done.

The day Stark calls with the offer to start S.H.I.E.L.D., she walks out with a smile of satisfaction. Because in that moment they all knew: Agent Peggy Carter had gotten the job because she’d proven herself the best of them. She’d put them all to shame—Peggy, the glorified secretary—while they were out tossing back beers at the bar.

 _How am I doing, Steve?_ she thinks as the night air whips through the car, mussing her curls, the lights of D.C. on the horizon.

****

It’s strange, working with Stark again. It feels a lot like the old days—only now there’s a pool out back, where his wife’s usually lounging in her bikini. That took some adjusting to: Howard Stark, the married man. But it seems marriage is doing him some good. He’s still cocky, loud, and brash, but he’s learning how to be more patient. To look three steps ahead before he inserts the wire into the fuse.

“You know, you were my first pick for this,” he says one night as they’re breaking down a potential budget for the different divisions their organization has to have. 

“First?”

“And only, to be entirely honest. It’s an idea that’s been percolating in the back of my head for a while. Since…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He knows he doesn’t need to. That it’s been on her mind far more than it has on his. He just lost a friend; she lost that and more.

“Still—thank you, Stark. It’s a good thing you called when you did,” she says brightly after a long pause. 

“Oh?”

“Yes, I was only hours away from snapping and shooting half of my department,” she says with a brittle smile, and it’s strikingly similar to the look she wore that day she picked up a pistol and fired at Steve’s new shield.

Speaking of: “And the name?” he says quietly, glancing down at the columns of figures he’s written out. “You’re good with the name?”

“A bit of a mouthful when you spell it all out,” she replies. “But I think it’s perfect. What else would we call ourselves? We’ll be for the world what Steve always was. I can think of no better way to honor his memory.”

She speaks briskly, her words crisp and clipped, and Stark thinks there’s something to be said for the stiff upper lip of the British. It's handy in their line of work; that’s a useful thing to have in your toolkit during a war and in the raw aftermath, when you’re trying to rebuild and so many things have sharp, cutting edges…

****

Several nights a week she takes to walking along the Potomac, to give Stark some time alone with the missus. Pretty soon they’ll have to move operations out of his basement workspace and into a proper building of its own. They’re still debating on just where the Triskelion—Stark does delight in giving things elaborate names—should be located. Here, to show their willingness to work in tandem with other established peacekeeping organizations? Or in New York City, as another homage to Steve? It _is_ one of the most populous and important cities in the country; practically its unofficial capitol—the city most countries think of when they think of America.

She’s staring out at the rippling water, the way the setting sun is burnishing it gold and orange, when she feels someone approaching. The hand in her jacket pocket closes around her derringer.

“Don’t shoot, ma’am; I come in peace.”

“Dugan!” She releases the breath she’d been holding, slides her hand out of her pocket, and smiles at the mustachioed face and worn bowler she remembers well. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m actually living here now—in D.C., I mean. Did Stark not tell you?”

“No, it must have slipped his mind. We’ve been very busy.”

“Typical—I leave for a couple weeks on some family business and what’s he do? Invite you over without breathing a word to either of us. Hell, I was practically living at his mansion for a while there, while my new place was being renovated. How’ve you been doing, Miss Carter?”

“Please, call me Peggy. And I’ve been… doing well. As well as can be expected. And you?”

She doesn’t put it into audible words: how are you acclimating to being back home? How is your country treating you, after the horrors you’ve seen? Are the nightmares very bad? Is there anyone you can talk to? How many friends, family members, neighbors came back with you—and how many funerals and memorials have you attended? 

“Doing as well as can be expected,” he echoes her with a rueful smile. “Been doing odd jobs here and there. I’m finding it hard to settle down on one thing for long. If you’ll be in town for a while, we should go to dinner sometime. Reminisce. Truth be told, I miss the old gang. Still feels strange, being back here and not having the Commandos around.” 

“I know precisely what you mean.”

He glances up at the darkening sky. “I better be off. Nice seeing you again, Peggy.”

“You, too, Dugan.”

He walks off, hands shoved into his pockets, whistling a crude shanty. And where _are_ the other Howling Commandos right now? she wonders. Feeling listless and frustrated like so many other soldiers? Or are they happy and content to return to the old status quo? She can’t help but assume it’s the former: they’re all such men of action and conviction, so committed to fighting the good fight. That’s not something you can just take off and hang up in the closet and forget. When you’re that sort of soldier, it becomes a way of life. A natural way of thinking, where you’re constantly sizing up the world and the people around you. Men like that need to feel like they’re living for a purpose; they can’t bear to be inactive.

She brings it up with Stark the next morning over breakfast, as he’s downing a green tonic for his throbbing head. Setting the emptied glass down with a soft clink, he pulls down his sunglasses to fix her with a thoughtful stare. 

“Not a half bad idea,” he says. “I’ll make a few phone calls today.”

****

Several phone calls and a week later — they’re all there. Even Jacques, who’d been helping clear out the extensive tunnels beneath Paris that had been utilized by the Resistance. Montgomery says, in that plummy, chummy way of his, that he’s only here for a visit — just a quick nip in to say halloo to old friends before jetting back to London where a whole gaggle of beauties are waiting for him.

“This is a golden opportunity, gentlemen,” Stark begins from the head of the table, ever the consummate showman. “The chance to get in at the ground level. To help build and shape this organization in its infancy—to make it something we can all be proud of.”

“All of us,” Dugan says roughly. “That includes the Captain, and Barnes.”

“Precisely,” Peggy says, standing beside Stark. “This is as much in honor of those who sacrificed as it is for those of us who want to keep the world safe, and make it better. S.H.I.E.L.D. will be what the Captain—what Steve—would have been, if he came home. A protective symbol of justice. Regardless of political party lines or allegiances—we will stand up to those who would prey upon the weak or threaten others with force. We will fight the good fight, gentlemen, even if we must fight it in the shadows. We do this not for glory, not for accolades, not for recognition. We do this because it's the right thing to do.”

“I’m with you,” Jim Morita says without hesitation, standing. “They say the war’s over, and I’m glad. But there’s always gonna be another war. Another conflict. Another asshole who gets ahold of power and thinks he’s above the law. I’m with you.”

“ _Je me tenais par le Capitaine l'enfer sur terre. Et vous étiez tout près de moi. Je serai heureux de me joindre à vous. Pour garder le monde juste. Pour le Capitaine,_ ” Jacques says as he stands.

“I don’t think I could say it better myself,” Gabe Jones smiles. “I’ll only add this: hell yes I’ll join up. Where do I sign?”

“Oh, why on earth not?” Montgomery blusters, pushing his chair out. “London’s ever so dreary and depressing right now, anyhow. Might as well let them rebuild things a bit, put the old shine and polish on the city before I come back.”

“One question,” Dugan says, the last one still sitting. “What’ll the benefits be like?”

“Dum Dum!” Morita hisses, punching his shoulder.

“Hey, a man my age—I gotta be looking at the rising costs of health-care, retirement, sick leave, that sort of thing.” He grins toothily, picking up his whisky glass as he rises. “As if I’d ever say no. I’m already used to taking your orders, Miss Carter. I’ll be more than happy to take them again.” He lifts his glass. “To S.H.I.E.L.D.!”

“To S.H.I.E.L.D.!” echoes the room.

 _We’re going to make you proud, Steve,_ she promises.

****

Time seems to fly by.

One moment they’re standing around Howard Stark’s giant dining room table, raising their glasses in a smiling toast. The next, the Triskelion is being built, outfitted with several innovations from Stark Enterprises. There’s a plaque engraved with her name—AGENT MARGARET CARTER—hanging on a door. She and the Commandos have fallen into an easy habit of meeting for drinks at Kelleher’s every Friday night. Her French improves and she starts tackling Spanish, then Russian. There are regular fires in the R&D labs; so regular, in fact, that Stark designs a slew of robots with specially-fitted extinguisher heads to patrol the floor at all times. They broker terms with the United Nations; draw clear lines of division with the American government. Begin hand-picking likely agent candidates from the military, scientific think tanks, universities.

She still talks to Steve sometimes, but not as often as she used to. It’s not that she’s forgotten him, or that she has less to say. It’s just that it’s easier now that she has a purpose. She has others to turn to when she has a question or a fear. He’s not the only voice in her head. And she thinks that’s a good thing. 

Steve Rogers would never have wanted her to stay trapped in that one day, never moving on from the loss of him, never having a life of her own. He would have wanted her to grab everything she wanted. Laugh and cry—but never too much of the latter. Dance even if it was with someone else, so long as the melody was a good one, and carry on the fight even if he couldn’t be there to cover her back. He had loved her; she was sure of that. Just as she had loved him. That skinny earnest young man from Brooklyn, who never had the good sense to back down from a fight, who was always honest and forthright and respectful. Who was too good for this world and gave it everything he had.

It was his choice. And this new life is hers.

So when, months later, Gabe Jones buys her a drink and asks her hesitantly for a dance, she smiles, takes his hand, and says yes.


End file.
